CHAPTER XX

SOMEONE VANISHES

Poor red devil! He surely was in for it!

What a pity that anyone so jolly, so full of the froth and bubble of life, should find any hard spots on his joyous glide through life! Pity or no pity, he was in for it!

He was soft from too much eating, too much drinking and too many good times. There was jazz in his blood, plenty of it. But one cannot defend one’s self with the jittering rhythm of jazz. Hugo, the red devil, went down and came up again. He went down and was soundly beaten by this mysterious intruder. He roared for help, but there was no help near. He had chosen a lonely spot for his promenade. In the end he began whimpering like a baby. Then the intruder left him. And as he left, Hugo fancied he heard him mutter, “You take what you want.” He was, however, too dazed and befuddled to tell truly whether he had heard aright or no.

When Danby Force came to claim Florence for the last dance of the evening, he was surprised to find an unaccustomed wealth of color in her cheeks. He fancied too that she seemed agitated and quite unusually excited. Her breath seemed to come with a little catch.

He said nothing about it and soon they were floating across the floor to the music of the old but ever beautiful waltz, “Over the Waves.”

“Ah,” Florence whispered as, like light row boats on moonlit waters they glided on and on, “how beautiful! Nothing could be more wonderful. I wish it might go on forever.”

Danby Force did not answer. A slight tightening of the hand was his only reply.

“But look!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Your knuckles are bleeding!”

“It’s nothing,” she laughed. “I can’t make the silly things stop.” Deftly she twisted her handkerchief about the offending knuckles. Then the dance went on.

“I fell upon something rather rough and bad,” she said after a time in quite an absent-minded manner.

“Have you found our spy?” Danby Force asked, after thanking her for his good time when the dance was over.

“Not yet.” Suddenly Florence felt very weary.

“I’m working on it. There’s a hunchback German and two dark-faced ladies and a little fellow like an ape who rakes leaves. It must be one of these.”

“But may not be,” he said quietly. “You will do well to keep right on looking.”

“Now what did he mean by that?” she asked herself after he was gone. “Does he suspect someone else, someone who has not even caught my attention? Perhaps I’m not much good as a lady cop after all.”

With that she entered the little cottage that for the time was her home.

The instant she entered her room she shot an anxious look toward Verna’s bed. Then she heaved a sigh of relief. Verna was sleeping peacefully. A single tear that glistened on her cheek detracted not one whit from her beauty.

The big girl smiled as her eyes fell upon the crumpled fairy’s wings that lay upon a chair. “Wings all crumpled but the fairy’s safe, tha—thank God!” She choked a little over these last words.

For a long time after her light was out, she lay in her bed looking at the moon shining through her window. Had one been present who could see in the dark, he might have found her lips smiling. Florence was large, too large and strong for a girl. Many a time she had shed bitter tears over this. Many a time too she had looked upon her slim and willowy sisters and felt her heart burn with envy. But tonight as she stirred beneath the covers, as she sensed the glorious strength of her arms, her limbs, her whole superb body, she was filled with such a warmth of gladness as one does not soon forget.

“Thank you, God!” she whispered. “Thanks for making me big and strong!” At that she fell asleep.

And tomorrow was another day.

Back in Chicago the night was not over for the little French girl. To her unutterable surprise, she had discovered among the dancing girls of the Ballet Russe the dark lady who she believed was the industrial spy. At once Jeanne had stepped from her place and vanished.

How she managed to make her way unchallenged to the wings of the stage, she will never quite know. Enough that she at last was there, nor, unless carried away by the heels, would she budge from the place until she had gotten one good look at that mysterious lady.

“And after that,” she told herself, “I shall call the police.”

By the time she had made her way to the wings of the stage, the last production of the evening, “The Beautiful Blue Danube,” had begun. Nothing ever done by the Ballet Russe is more charming than the Blue Danube. The music and dancing were so lovely that for a space of time Jeanne quite forgot her mission. But not for long. Soon her eyes were upon the dancing girls. As, swinging and swaying, rising on tip-toe, seeming to float in air, they approached her, she caught her breath, then whispered: “It is this one. No, that one—or that one.”

In the end, to her great disappointment, she discovered that it was not one of them all. They all had perfect ears.

What had happened? Had she been mistaken? Impossible. Had she been tricked? This was possible.

“But no,” she thought to herself. “That dark lady will come on later. In this picture she has a separate part.”

So, standing on tip-toe, longing every second to throw away her purple cape and join the dancers, she watched and waited—waited in vain for, when the curtain fell, no dark lady with a torn ear had appeared upon the stage.

Then of a sudden someone said, “Well! How did you get here?”

“I am a dancer,” Jeanne replied quick-wittedly. “Perhaps after a while I shall be given a chance to try my skill.”

“Perhaps, and again perhaps not.” The tall, dark man looked at her doubtfully. But Jeanne, in her gown of many silver beads and her purple cape, was very charming. Few could resist her. So she stayed.

“But tell me!” she exclaimed. “There was one of the dancing girls I have known. She was third in the Fire-Bird. Where is she?”

“Ah yes.” The tall, dark man shrugged. “Where is she? She is gone.”

“Gone?” Jeanne felt her knees sink. “She is gone?”

“Ah yes, Mademoiselle. She came as a substitute to this country with us. She has been away. Tonight she comes back. She asks that she may dance. She is very clever, that one. We say, ‘You may dance.’ You have seen, she danced very well. And now she is gone.” He spread his hands wide.

“But where has she gone?” Jeanne demanded eagerly.

The tall, dark man spread his hands wider still. “Who knows? Not one among us here. We are through at this city. She will not come back here. Shall we see her again? Who can say? She is a queer one, that dancer.”

“Yes,” Jeanne murmured low, “she is a queer one.”

At that she made her way from the fast clearing house out into the cool, damp night. She had wanted to dance on that broad stage. She wanted to dance no more. The dark lady had appeared before her very eyes. Now she was gone. She, Petite Jeanne, had failed.